Threads of Hope: Quilts of Love Series

Threads of Hope

Other books in the Quilts of Love Series

Beyond the Storm

Carolyn Zane

(October 2012)

A Wild Goose Chase Christmas

Jennifer AlLee

(November 2012)

Path of Freedom

Jennifer Hudson Taylor

(January 2013)

For Love of Eli

Loree Lough

(February 2013)

A Healing Heart

Angela Breidenbach

(April 2013)

A Heartbeat Away

S. Dionne Moore

(May 2013)

Pattern for Romance

Carla Olson Gade

(June 2013)

Pieces of the Heart

Bonnie S. Calhoun

(August 2013)

Raw Edges

Sandra D. Bricker

(September 2013)

The Christmas Quilt

Vannetta Chapman

(October 2013)

Aloha Rose

Lisa Carter

(November 2013)

Tempest’s Course

Lynette Sowell

(December 2013)

Scraps of Evidence

Barbara Cameron

(January 2014)

A Sky Without Stars

Linda S. Clare

(February 2014)

Maybelle in Stitches

Joyce Magnin

(March 2014)

Other books by Christa Allan

Walking on Broken Glass
The Edge of Grace

Quilts of Love Series

Christa Allan

Threads of Hope

Copyright © 2013 by Christa Allan

ISBN-13: 978-1-4267-5266-7

Published by Abingdon Press, P.O. Box 801, Nashville, TN
37202
www.abingdonpress.com

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form, stored in
any retrieval system, posted on any website, or transmitted in any form or by any
means—digital, electronic, scanning, photocopy, recording, or
otherwise—without written permission from the publisher, except for brief
quotations in printed reviews and articles.

The persons and events portrayed in this work of fiction are the
creations of the author, and any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely
coincidental.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Allan, Christa.

Printed in the United States of America

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 / 18 17 16 15 14 13

To the families and friends
of the men, women, and children whose lives
will be forever stitched together
on The AIDS Memorial Quilt.
Remember. Understand. Share the lessons. Act
.

Much like the varied and various panels stitched together to compose a quilt that is unique and a reflection of all those who participated in its completion, so too is this novel. Because of the contributions of others, each offering a special talent or wisdom, this novel is in your hands.

Thanks to Abingdon Press for their continued support: to Senior Acquisitions Editor—Fiction Ramona Richards and Teri Wilhelms, who edited the novel, and to everyone there whose dedication makes publishing possible.

I deeply appreciate my agent Sandra Bishop, who tirelessly stitches me together every time I unravel. I probably should enroll her in Thimble-of-the-Month Club (not that there is one, but if there was, she’d be a charter member).

Jenny B. Jones . . . how can I thank you except to give you a few weeks of peace between novels. I’ve leaned on you (okay, maybe sometimes poured concrete and used you as a foundation) through texts, telephone, tweets, e-mails, and gchats. I’ve exhausted every means and method of communication in seeking your help, and you still haven’t (yet) moved to an unknown location on some unknown planet.

Thanks to Shelley, whose plotting skills save me, and to Carole and Carrie for calling me to make sure I’ve not impaled myself on a red pen. Thanks to the lunch bunch for laughter: Michelle, Meredith, Tammie, Jennifer, Kim, Tracey, Adam, and Andrew.

Without my brother John and my brother-in-law Ricky, every meal would be Coke Zero, popcorn, and chocolate. It’s incredibly reassuring to know that, every day, I’m only twenty-three steps away from encouragement, food, and love.

My children, Michael, Erin (and Andrae), Shannon, Sarah, and John (all now old enough to be adult-ren), continue to claim me as their mother even when I’m at my craziest. And, of course, my forever love and gratitude to my husband Ken, who has learned the art of self-preservation during my writing and of us-preservation when I’m not.

Thank you God for making all of the above possible.

After three years, it finally happened.

Janie Bettencourt announced her promotion. She would be moving from Houston to New York to become Senior Editor of
Trends
magazine.

The promotion Nina O’Malley had hoped would be her own.

And, as if that news wasn’t enough to justify Nina adding banana splits as main dish items on her diet, ice cream became its own food group after Janie added that joining her would be staff photographer Brady Lambert.

The Brady who, years ago, promised her the moon. The Brady who, later, spun out of her orbit and splashed down in Janie’s. The Brady Lambert whom Nina had hoped would be her own.

When was she going to learn to wait for the other shoe to drop before assuming she could celebrate?

Earlier that morning, when she’d spotted an email message from Elise Johnson, the Executive Editor, Nina allowed herself the luxury of dreaming. Elise’s personal emails were infrequent, at least in her in-box, and generally, no frills, as if she’d be charged by the word count. So, she wasn’t at all offended
when she read the brief request: “My office. Nine o’clock. Important matter to discuss. EJ.” In fact, she was elated. And she remained so for the next fifty-four minutes, not counting her elevator time to the seventh floor where she was ushered into Elise’s office.

In less time than it took for Nina to arrive in the starkly modern office of the executive editor, disappointment introduced itself. Later, when the elevator door swished open to reveal Janie, Nina felt like a contestant on a game show who’d guessed wrongly and seen what she might have won.

The weight of Elise’s remarks might have pushed Nina to the second floor almost as efficiently as the elevator:
Structurally correct writing, but lacked style and passion. More initiative and less predictability. Network. Move out of your comfort zone
. Elise challenged Nina to convince her that she’d be making a mistake not to promote her. “We’re considering other markets like Atlanta and Nashville, perhaps Los Angeles. One of those could be yours. Show me what you can do.”

By the time Janie gathered the staff and squealed her news, Nina had power walked to Starbucks and returned caffeinated and composed. She smiled in Janie’s direction, grateful Janie couldn’t read her thoughts to know her angelic face came from imagining a subway door closing on one of her size 6 Ferragamo shoes.

Just as the image was becoming crystal clear in Nina’s mind, a tidal wave of a voice in her head crashed over that picture and left behind the sound of her mother’s words:
“You’re being so petty, my dear. God doesn’t like ugly, you know.”
Nina mentally shushed her mother who, even more than twenty miles away, could still inject an admonition into her daughter’s nerve center of guilt.

Sheila Hudson O’Malley married Nina’s father Patrick not long after they graduated from high school and then stayed
home to mother two children into semi-adulthood. What would she know about fickle boyfriends and dashed career dreams? “Sure, mother. Easy for you to say,” Nina muttered as she diverted her attention from the fawning frenzy over Janie to rearrange the clutter on her desk. She hoped to unearth her iPad from underneath what looked like an office supply store explosion of paper that had landed there.

“Were you talking to me?”

Nina paused between lifting legal pads to turn toward her cubicle-mate, Daisy Jeffers, who had scooted her desk chair past her partition, and now stared at her. As usual, her dark hair sprouted from the top of her head like sprinkler arms. She was always one strong wind short of being propelled above ground level.

“No. I was talking to my mother.” Nina resumed her excavation.

“Well, I’m assuming the one in your head since I don’t smell Chanel No. 5 in the vicinity. And, anyway . . .” she bit into her apple.

Now that Nina found her iPad lurking in her desk drawer under a stack of folders and three expired restaurant coupons, she focused on Daisy. “Are you aware how absolutely annoying that is?”

Daisy swallowed. “You mean her?” Still holding her half-eaten apple, Daisy bent her arm over her head and motioned in the general direction of the newly promoted.

Nina flipped open the leather cover to find her interview notes. “Not Janie. You. Can you wait until before or after your thoughts, not between them, to eat? It’s so maddening waiting for you to finish chewing . . .” She paused.

Her mother’s voice. She heard her mother’s voice, the one that forever seemed marinated in exasperation, spill out of her own mouth. She looked up at Daisy. “You just got a whiff of
Chanel No. 5 didn’t you?” Nina gave way to the defeat and disappointment and flopped into her chair.

Daisy pinched her nose for a moment and grimaced. “A serious overdose.” Not an unexpected reply from someone who smelled as if she’d spritzed herself with bottled spring rain, newly mown summer grass, and a hint of an autumn bonfire. She tossed her apple core into her stainless steel ecolunchbox, wiped her hands with her cotton napkin, and rolled herself closer to Nina. Almost ten years younger than Nina, Daisy exuded a wisdom beyond her age. As a child, she slept in a car for weeks until her single mother found a homeless shelter for them. Daisy figured living on the streets was poverty’s answer to accelerated learning. Nina suspected Daisy’s minimalist approach to the externals in her life—clothing, furniture, car—balanced the burden of her emotional life.

“It’s just not your time,” said Daisy. “There will be a season for you, too.”

Nina felt as if she’d just been patted on the head and told to run along and play. “I’d like to wallow in my pity party a bit longer before you start breaking it up with your New Age-y philosophies,” she responded.

Daisy smiled. A reaction Nina found more annoying than the smattering of applause earlier that followed Janie’s news.

“Well, I wouldn’t be a worthy friend if I didn’t at least try to save you from yourself. And, anyway, how much of a party is it if you’re the only one with an invitation?”

“Speaking of invitations . . .”

Nina was as startled to see Janie materialize as Daisy appeared to be when she heard her voice. Daisy slowly swiveled her chair and looked up at the leggy blonde who leaned against the gray dividing wall separating their desks from the receptionist’s. “Whoa. How did you do that? Is magically transporting yourself part of the new job description?”

Janie tilted her head, placed her forefinger on her cheek, and became a perfect model for “deep in thought.” Except for the smirk. She dropped the pose and looked at Nina. “I suppose having my finger on the pulse of the magazine is a requisite for effective management. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Daisy and Nina exchanged eye contact then stared at Janie.

“So . . . anyway . . . back to invitations.” Janie reached into the pocket of her flouncy skirt and silenced the pinging on her cell phone. “I’m having a cozy going-away dinner at my condo in two weeks. Of course, you’re both invited. Bra and I are hosting it together.”

“Bra,” which she pronounced like “hey” was her special name for Brady, used only when not in his presence. The first time Janie uttered it in the office, it sliced through any thread of expectation Nina held for a future with him. She suspected the affectation was Janie’s unseen electric collar around Brady, but instead of confining him, it zapped a warning to any women on the prowl contemplating new territory. Or one like Nina, who hoped for an open gate.